


Calm Before Storm

by King of Novices (mykonos)



Series: Kill Me Before Death [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Engagement, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Content, hints of exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mykonos/pseuds/King%20of%20Novices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'Kill Me Before Death'</p><p>Malik was never fond of snow and ice to begin with. It seems only fair and reasonable to melt it down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calm Before Storm

**Author's Note:**

> It's as embarrassing as I promised.
> 
> While you read, consider the following: http://i.imgur.com/Vgm3R6w.jpg?1

Altaïr is in mid-stride towards the apartments entry when the doorway opens emitting Kadar whose daily chore obviously seems to be bringing out disposal.

He almost collides with Altaïr on his way out.

" _Holy_ cannoli—you gave me a fright, you asshole." Kadar gripes while flattening his free hand close to heart.

"Stop carping, twerp." Altaïr grumbles right back and maneuvers them into a swap of positions, "Can you go out in that?" He points to Kadar’s casual attire while he feels for his wallet inside his back-pocket.

"Uhhh, sure." Kadar decides after a brief check-over, "Why?"

"Here’s money." Altaïr clarifies after he throws a wad of cash his way and Kadar catches it just in time.

Kadar unrolls the notes and scowls at the sum in utter confusion.

"Go buy yourself a movie ticket. A whole cinema. A wife. Whichever. Just _leave_." Altaïr orders during a slow retreat backwards.

"What? _Why_?" Kadar demands as his confusion deepens with each passing second.

"Because I’m about to go fuck your brother senseless."

Kadar does what any sensible man would do in given situation and turns on his heel to scram from sight.

He is halfway across the pavement, garbage bag in one hand and money in other, when Altaïr calls from the doorway.

"Kadar, wait."

Kadar stops in his tracks at the order, but doesn't look back.

"Don’t return for at least an hour or so."

Kadar turns only so he can lift an eyebrow at him.

"Two." Altaïr corrects himself, "Two and a half." He assesses at last and Kadar’s face sours up.

"Fucking animal…" He grumbles on to himself and proceeds onto his way to stuff himself with expensive food.

 

* * *

 

 

When Altaïr finds him on the setback terrace at last, it’s a sight he’s not expecting, but nothing less of a pleasure.

Malik has slept through all his calls for attention and continues to slumber on a sun lounge with a book just waiting to slip from his loose grip.

Altaïr enjoys the sight for a couple of peaceful moments and starts working at his clothes. He drops the belt and unbuttons the first barrier on his shirt and leaves it at that.

While he is careful to slot himself in beside Malik he hopes the piece of furniture is as sturdy as it feels.

The cushions are thick and soft and the lounge appears to be enough to hold their combined weight. Altaïr fastens himself to Malik's back and reaches around to put the book away.

Malik isn’t startled at being woken up by a pair of warm and insistent lips on the visible patch of skin where neck and shoulder meet. After all the months, he is used to Altaïr’s presence the way he’s used to his brother. He knows not to whack the man on the head thinking it’s Kadar feeling him up (as it did happen the first time he was woken by Altaïr in his own home).

"If I were an assassin, you’d be dead by now." Altaïr breathes into his neck between kisses.

Malik blinks his vision into focus before he twists in Altaïr's hold and falls on his back.

"You’re worse than an assassin." Malik’s eyes are only half-open and his voice is laced with sleep. He frames Altaïr's face with his right hand and caresses over the length of his brow, a touch of smile rests on his lips while Altaïr waits for him to finish his train of thought.

"Thief." Malik smirks when the brow he strokes narrows into a question at his accusation, "You’ve stolen my heart, and now I have to chase after to steal yours in retribution."

Altaïr's chuckle is a deep baritone pressed into Malik's petting palm.

"I’m afraid you’ll find yourself with empty hands then. You’ve taken that already."

The smirk stretches to reveal Malik's canine as he resumes his old position, rolls his shoulder lower and cranes his head up to offer his neck and listens to Altaïr’s low drone of appreciation as he dives in for a treat. The sound makes an itch of lust crawl through Malik's nerves, and his lips set off the sweetest tingle where the man showers attention, until not a spot is left unattended and Altaïr settles behind him, nuzzled deeply into the crook of his neck.

Altaïr's arm is curled around his middle and Malik’s fingers work short of his knowledge as they pet across the back of Altaïr's hand. It's a pleasant and peaceful silence that settles over them.

"Hey?" Altaïr breaks the quiet after Malik stills all movement and almost drifts off in his embrace.

"Hm?" Malik breathes back half-heartedly, his voice scratchy from sleep.

"Marry me?"

Malik feels himself go stiff with sudden wakefulness before he cranes his neck to look at ambers that hide behind his shoulder.

" _Marry_?" The dropping lilt of Malik’s question is not unalike the one he used ages ago when Kadar asked him if they could visit the moon for his tenth birthday.

"Yes. You know, where people agree to tolerate each other for eternity and eat fatty cakes."

Malik shoots him a glare which dissipates the moment Altaïr completes the trail of his thoughts.

"I’ll bear your name. Altaïr Al-Sayf Ibn-La’Ahad." He breathes into Malik's shoulder and across his chin and watches him intensely until Malik is lost in pools of amber.

"That’s a mouthful." Malik whispers after a while because Altaïr is close—so close he can inspect the texture of his scar and count his thick lashes.

"I’ll bear the burden with pride."

Malik swallows a tad nervously, but Altaïr is worse off. He watches him squirm under the pressure of anticipation before he deems enough time has passed to end his agony.

"I don’t see any engagement rings." Malik says, his voice a little firmer now. He is quick to hide a smile fighting for a place on his lips while he watches Altaïr grasp the full implications of his question.

Altaïr fails in first attempt to form words, but he corrects himself quickly.

"I didn’t exactly plan any of this."

"You never plan things, Al-Sayf La’Ahad."

Altaïr’s wicked grin charges him to return the gesture before the smile is wiped off his face by a press of lips.

Altaïr cages him in until Malik is not on his side anymore and Altaïr is flat over him and they are nothing more than a wedge of two bodies. The mafioso kisses deep and hard, and there’s hunger in the way he shifts. Malik is neither ignorant nor non-compliant to his ulterior motives and creates space for him to fit in between his thighs.

"Sex?" Malik offers blatantly when the pressure on his groin is too sweet to stop just there. The row of pruned hedges they planted on the terrace last year shelters them from onlookers just fine and they know how to keep quiet.

"What about Kadar?" Altaïr inquires when he’s managed to disconnect himself from Malik’s throat. He feigns ignorance and innocence and waits to hear Malik’s response.

"You didn’t complain as much when we first met."

The sting of Altaïr’s nip is nowhere painful enough to hurt on his neck and strong enough to entice him into a roll of hips. Malik feels the hardness in Altaïr’s trousers and it sends his head into a dizzy spin. He digs with handfuls into the muscle of the man’s ass and pulls him further against his crotch. Altaïr’s responsive groan slinks into humid breath against his throat.

"Are we really going to celebrate our engagement with sex?" He asks between worrying the skin of Malik’s neck.

"I’d say it’s what we normally do."

Malik doesn’t relent until they’re all but rutting and making-out like two horny teenagers, even though they’re two grown men and should know better than to play hiding on a terrace. It’s Altaïr who breaks this circle of frustrating build-up by pulling Malik’s t-shirt up and over and ridding himself of his pants. By the time Malik has undone all the buttons of Altaïr’s shirt, there’s no time to take it off and they are in a confused state of half-dress when Altaïr breathes out a question.

"Lube?"

"It’s not like I keep it here, dumbass."

Altaïr growls and takes off to bedroom in nothing but socks and his wrinkled-and-open shirt. Malik might have laughed at the sight were he not hard as rock and his body humming with the promise of pleasure.

Malik vaguely wonders why he hasn’t used the chance to get his pants off during Altaïr’s short absence, but the man is already upon him, in exactly the same state of (un)dress as when he had left, now with the bottle in hand. He replaces Malik’s stroking hand with his slick one and slathers his cock from root to crown. Malik knows in an instant the man wants to ride him.

He allows Altaïr to climb and assume a comfortable position, attempts to remove the remains of his shirt, but it’s not even past Altaïr’s shoulders before the man is claiming his lips and taking him in. There’s nothing but pleasure in Altaïr’s expression while he seats himself across Malik’s crotch and grinds down to drive Malik to sweet insanity. He grabs at the back-rest for leverage and laments the lack of hand-rests to hold on, but Malik aids his movement and helps him up and down.

They keep the noise down to a minimum, to avoid prying eyes and nosy questions, and there’s nothing but soft labored breathing to pair off with the slick sound of Altaïr riding down his shaft, with the occasional creak of chair disturbing this silent duet.

Altaïr is a hungry bottom, demands movement and effort, but because Malik is fond of this lounge and doesn’t want it ruined he pays no heed to Altaïr’s protest when he maneuvers the man backward and over until Altaïr's head is a sliver away from falling off the far end of the chair and Malik hovers over him. Altaïr ceases his grievances at lost control when it’s clear Malik has no intention of stopping or letting him off unsatisfied.

Altaïr remains there on his back, shirt splayed open at his sides, ass off chair and perched on Malik’s lap. His thighs are open for Malik’s fitting and heels digging into his back. The scuff of socks is an alien sensation on Malik’s skin but the weight of Altaïr’s push is a pleasant addition. He holds himself over Altaïr on both arms and hammers in a barrage of thrusts until Altaïr is cursing filthy endearments at Malik and his cock.

The mafioso bends his clothed arms at the elbow and quickly locates the stop of the chair above his head. He grabs at the rim and holds, awaiting Malik’s thrusts with more ease this time.

Their coupling is steadily growing a bit more than just hushed breathing, all labored pants and gasps and obscene slaps of sweaty bodies, and Malik hopes no one’s around to hear it.

He stares right back into the burn of ambers he’s grown to love. The face beneath his is abundant with signs of pleasure and he drinks up each one of them and fucks Altaïr like the man loves it.

He is picking up on speed even when his muscles scream in protest, and he hardens his pace close before his climax, doesn’t notice as the end of the lounge begins to slope and both almost drop right off it.

Altaïr reaches over his head to plant his hand on the tiles and act as prop up for the weight the chair can’t hold and even the scales until they work out a more favorable solution.

Malik pushes himself out of Altaïr and falls back to flatten the backrest, then pulls Altaïr along to balance the heft to middle ground, and they are no better than when they started.

He shuffles them around until Altaïr is on his side and they are still on the wrong side of the chair when Malik spoons up from behind and fits his cock back in without Altaïr’s help. The man is accepting enough of the new position and hooks his leg behind Malik’s thighs, because he’s raring to come as much as Malik.

He’s putty in Malik’s hands, putty against the possessive splay of Malik’s touch that drags up the gentle bumps of his abominals and ribs, and across his chest and pecs. Altaïr’s pulse is an unremitting throb against the flat of his hand that latches around Altaïr’s neck and holds without pressure. The roll of his hips is not a powerful one, nor hard, but more is not needed to push Altaïr towards the beginnings of an orgasm and he (graciously) spends himself inside his awaiting fist.

Malik is quick to follow and decides against finishing inside Altaïr, knowing the mess he’ll make, so he too is courteous and pulls out in time to spill across the warmth of Altaïr’s inner thigh.

Altaïr is growing into one lazy bastard.

He pillows his head in the bend of his arm and waits for Malik to clean up the collective mess they left on him, from the wet patch of come in Altaïr’s palm to the streaks of cooling issue on his thigh. Malik sees the smug smirk across the pair of scarred lips and knows better than to complain. He offers an unintelligible grumble in lieu and leaves Altaïr be.

Before he has the chance to finish up his impromptu clean-up, Altaïr has already crossed the borders of la-la land.

Malik pulls his t-shirt back on and throws a blanket over the sleeping mafioso (because it’s getting chill, not because he’d like to cuddle up) and resumes his place. He smiles at their comical position, but Altaïr wouldn’t have dozed off if he weren’t tired, and he lets him.

It’s only for a few minutes, he promises himself as he allows Altaïr’s steady breathing to trick him into slumber.

He dreams of pretty mosques and tacky balloons before he wakes up, jarred into consciousness by some distant sound from several stories below, and when he blinks himself awake they are as he left them, except the light outside is dimmer.

Altaïr is fast asleep and Malik is a warm spoon against his back. He listens to deep breaths while he stretches as far as his position allows and props himself onto his elbow first.

Malik runs his free hand down Altaïr’s side but it does little to wake him up.

He leaves a trail of kisses along the dip between Altaïr’s shoulder and bicep. It’s cotton under his lips until he’s high enough to slip the shirt off Altaïr’s shoulder and continue up once his path is cleared. Altaïr wakes with a deep sigh and he’s content to remain lying just there, upside down on a wooden lounge chair while late evening dawns upon them. His lips quirk up at the tickle that is Malik’s teasing touch of lips below his ear. Malik’s grip is oh-so-strong and firm across his flank—

"Oh, come _on_!"

It’s far from the first time Kadar walks in on them, but his fake outrage is ruinous to the cuddly mood that had settled over Malik.

"No one compels you to stand and watch!"

He doesn't turn to look but he hears Kadar’s retreating groan as he distances himself from the terrace he perhaps hoped to occupy. Malik had usurped it long before Kadar did and feels no obligation to share, not now while he is wrapped up against Altaïr's shaking form which is victim to a bout of suppressed laughter.

He hides his smile in the wrinkles of the white shirt, content with knowledge that he is the warming force that has melted some ice off Altaïr, and he doesn’t need Ezio or Leonardo to remind him of this gargantuan feat.

There is more frost to thaw, but Malik is persistent and his endeavors are auspicious.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Why 'Calm Before the Storm'? 
> 
> Because I left my brain unattended for /one fucking second/ and it spewed forth another sequel -- it will have a couple of chapters, it will be a third start in this series, and it will be a little fucked up. 
> 
> Welcome aboard and enjoy your stay.


End file.
